Land's End
by GM
Summary: Following Devil's Foot story and episode - Holmes prepares for a new phase of his life - pushing back the past - looking toward the future - after forsaking cocaine and nearly killing himself and his friend.


Epilogue to

The Adventure of the Devil's Foot

Episode and story

Inspired by Jeremy and Edward

**LAND'S END**

by

GM

Far below the ragged cliffs, the roiling waves of the Atlantic were chilly-grey. Whipped by the wind, they crashed against the rocky coast with brutal force by the approaching tempest. Clouds obscured the sky; the briny air tasted of rain, the wind stung with a wintry bite and smelled damp, felt wet with the advancing storm. Sherlock Holmes kicked at a chunk of the Cornwall ledge, dislodged the rock from its promontory, and sent the stone cascading down the slope to land on the beach below. He stared at the ocean-front shoreline comprised of millions of little pebbles where the ebb and flow of the tide caused a skittering chatter of the rocks. Not long ago he had taken a solitary pilgrimage along this shore. There he buried a part of himself, a part of his past. A piece of himself. Not just the syringe and cocaine were interred on this beach. Burdens weighting his soul for years were discarded in gravel graves - shallow graves.

Over the few weeks of the 'holiday', Holmes' counselor, aide, confidant, friend – Dr. Watson - had helped peel away years of hauntings. The invisible refuse of old spectres would be left here. Holmes had, at first, worried that unburdening his soul to his friend would be embarrassing, or worse, would diminish his standing in the eyes of the finest gentleman he had ever known. His fears were unfounded.

Watson had made it clear he would stick by Holmes under any circumstance, and had certainly lived up to his word. Many times Watson was forced to extend tolerance to long suffering; patience to blindness - never more so than in this trying ordeal at Cornwall. Watson never failed in his duty to Holmes. How could he have ever doubted the good doctor?

Holmes stabbed the soft earth with his walking stick and started a slow, thoughtful stroll along the cliff edge. His eyes glanced out at the sea where the grey of sky and ocean merged and he saw none of the beauty. His mind's eye instead viewed the now partially opened window of his past. Strange how the sea was the same unforgiving, cold grey of his father's eyes.

He had discussed so much these few weeks, but not all. Holmes could never, not even to Watson, completely unburden his soul. There would always be a secluded place deeply buried in his heart where no one would ever tread. Those remembered revulsions from his arctic childhood, the core of his hauntings, were best left untouched. For now it was enough to know that he could deal with those memories and not hide from them behind the destructive curtain of cocaine.

Through this – through everything - Watson stood with him to Hell and back, but he would not subject his friend, or himself, to the ugliest past he kept hidden. He would never forget the betrayal, mistrust and pain which lived in his youth. Coping with - ignoring - the past was best for now. He could manage it all now because Watson had provided antidotes to those poisons.

Through unending, patient affection, Watson taught him how to live with painful memories which were once unbearable. Where he was once closed and afraid to trust, Watson responded with loyalty. When Holmes would defend his feelings by lashing out with cutting remarks, Watson replied with respect and patience. Or a pawky riposte! When he felt threatened and afraid to connect to anyone, Watson countered with undemanding friendship. When he chose to run from responsibility and pressure by deserting his friend at Reichenbach, Watson responded with unquestioning forgiveness. When he insisted on a path of destruction through cocaine, Watson was firm, unyielding, and stalwart in both his fondness and his medical stance.

A chill coursed just under his skin and Holmes clutched the blankets tighter round his chest. They were returning to the real world today. The healing isolation of the seaside would be replaced by the bustle of London and work. He would be facing the challenges of his existence without the crutch of cocaine. Failure would have to be risked now without the cushion of the drug as a safety net.

_"I thought I knew my Watson."_

Yet, he did not fear the days ahead. Because he dreaded something much darker – much worse - than days and nights without the false security of cocaine. Loss. He knew now that he could survive anything, fight any foe, as long as he had his solid friend beside him. The Devil's Foot experiment had shocked him with terror electrifying him to the very core! Pure panic was all he remembered as he came to his senses knowing he had not only nearly killed himself, but Watson. Or worse even – condemned them to lunacy! Unutterably grateful for the indomitable spirit, the integrity, the practicality – the loyalty - of Watson – else they would both now be dead.

_Falling. Gripped in the crushing embrace of the Falls. Descending toward the bottomless pit and death. Tumbling amid the water and next to my foe. Running through the past that became monuments of obstacles – ancient and mysterious and compelling like Stonehenge; misty and cryptic like the moors of Grimpen Mire. All images, fears, arcane temples of my obsession with solitude and separation._

_A voice drifts to mind. A frantic cry of desperation and love. Warning, regard, horror echo in the words. The expression of woeful pain as he peered over the edge of the Falls and called my name. The forlorn grief that tumbled out in his voice, in the tears that cascaded into the rushing water of a turbulent tomb. Misery and regret and heartache reverberate through the rocks and over the crashing waves into the air damp with weeping._

_Then even more powerful than the citadels of the past, the looming harbingers of dread past and future, comes the clarion call. Salvation. Bastion of strength. Lifeline._

_"Holmes Holmes! Holmes! For God's sake can you hear me!"_

_The sheer terror of the cry knocked away the miasma of confusion and blurry hallucinations. _

_Within the merciless and panicked grip of Watson, Holmes' head cleared enough to realize his experiment had gone woefully wrong. Both of them on the ground outside the cottage, lungs still clogged with cloying, choking fumes of the __Radix pedis diaboli__, nerves aggravated by fear._

_The alarm in the blue eyes was stark and in itself horrific._

_"John!"_

_"Thank God you're all right! That was a stupid and dangerous thing to do! We could have been killed!"_

_Seizing his arm, Holmes shuddered. "It was an unjustified experiment for myself. Doubly so for a friend." He clutched tightly to Watson's neck. "I really am extremely sorry."_

After the horror of nearly killing his friend, what did mundane life in London have that would cause even a ripple of concern? No darkness, no threat could compare. And what could a drug offer him now? Deceptive illusions? What need did he have of such lies when they were replaced by a surer understanding of something more stable and dependable than the daily sunrise: John Watson.

As Holmes balanced along the edge of the rocky path, it occurred to him that he was leaning on Watson too much, trading one destructive crutch for a mortal support. To completely bury his past and stand on his own strength, logically he should throw away all crutches. Not possible now. He had invested too much of his heart, soul and dependence into Watson, who was now not only a keeper and companion, but an inseparable part of his soul.

"Holmes!"

The detective turned and waved his stick at his friend, who stood at the bottom of the path.

"The carriage is waiting."

He waved the stick again in acknowledgement, and then turned back to the sea for a final look. The ocean was strangely calming and soothing; dangerous and disturbing, many things and many moods. Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to it - the surging complexities of the sea were so like his own confusing, inner tides. He thought, though, that he would not return here. Not to this stretch of coastline. The ghosts here must remain undisturbed.

"What are you looking at?"

Watson was beside him, gazing out at the sea. Holmes wondered what spectres the good doctor saw dancing through the grey waves. Holmes visualized his past - as murky as the rippling water. He glanced at his companion and observed such an introspective expression that he knew his friend contemplated some kind of parallel to his own thoughts.

"The past."

Watson turned to study him. "It is behind us now."

Holmes glanced back to the ashen horizon. "So it is."

"Then we should be leaving."

It was a comprehensive statement of finality. The closing of an act in Cornwall. The raising of a curtain for further, yet still entertaining dramas yet to unfold at Baker Street and beyond. Holmes turned his back to the sea and strolled down the path with the walking stick alternately resting on his shoulder or whipping the foliage of the hillside.

"We shall be in Baker Street in time for a late supper."

Watson hurried to keep up with his taller companion.

"Did you wire Mrs. Hudson that we would be returning? Do come along, Watson. I am looking forward to the cool spring fog of London and our housekeeper's unimaginative steak and kidney pie."

"You are?"

"Certainly. This remote little piece of land's end was YOUR choice for a holiday, remember? You know my centre is Baker Street."

"Yes. It is high time we returned."

They were nebulous words which seemed not so much an answer to Holmes' specific comments, but a review of what had been: a statement of what was yet to be in their lives.

**THE END**


End file.
